Scene's Original 1988 Review of Tracy Chapman's Debut Album

Thirty-five years after the release of her debut album, singer-songwriter and Cleveland native Tracy Chapman this week became the first Black musician to win the Country Music Award's Song of the Year. A cover version of "Fast Car"recorded by Luke Combs has dominated country and pop radio this year.

Which had us digging through the archives for what Scene thought back in 1988.

Turns out, we loved it then just as much as we do now.

The following review first appeared in our June 20, 1988 issue.

The jacket of Tracy Chapman's first album lies on the floor near my stereo, deceivingly still and gathering dust. It settled there last week, upon my toss, and has remained unbothered ever since.

The compact disc hasn't been so lucky. Anxiously purchased before the LP's second side could be introduced, it soon claimed top dibs on the CD drawer. And there it has stayed (and played) longer than any effort released this year.

If you don't know who Tracy Chapman is... you will.

For 36 minutes, this young woman becomes your friend, your sister, your lover. She wil scold you, question you and finally, teach you in the face of it all. She will make you feel guilty for ever feeling prejudice in your heart. She will make you want to change the world, change yourself, and to wonder why you and your first love couldn't make it work (or why you and your current lover can't). She will bring tears to your eyes and  perhaps, a smile to your lips. And when it is over, breathless, you will want to thank her.

Do not let her appearance fool you, for Chapman has gently tossed a warm acoustic blanket over one hell of a powerful vision. Indeed, her gift is that of power, somehow reserved yet ultimately intimidating for an artist so young.

As with most promising singer-songwriters, comparisons are prone to discussion, and Chapman's debut has already garnered mass amounts of media attention. Of course, Joan Armatrading's name is frequently mentioned (Chapman, however, shares little more than race and gender). Her vocal delivery is reminiscent of Joni Mitchell's folk period; her sensitivity parallels that of Suzanne Vega. Yet Chapman is not quite so detached from her listener as these influential forerunners were and are (even today).

Tracy Chapman is a fascinating storyteller. She either takes you by the hand and carefully controls you or grabs you by the collar and yanks you in. Her world is unlittered by pretense or facade; consequently, much of the journey is dark and mysterious, often overwhelming in its sheer reality.

At first encounter, this record seems splintered into two distinct vehicles; on one hand, Chapman initiates her listener with an urban jungle where characters pray, beg, mourn and die. On the other, she paints striking vignettes of romance that allure even the coldest souls.

"Talkin' 'Bout a Revolution" opens the album, a haunting cry for consciousness. Chapman insists, "Poor people gonna rise up/ and take what's theirs," and one can infer that she is not merely making a social statement, but a psychological one as well. Several other songs, political in shape but never preaching, tackle issues of crime and justice. In both "Across the Lines" and chilling a cappella," Behind the Wall," Chapman indicts police whose sirens are always seen and heard too late to stop the crime. And in "Why?" she stares her generation's leaders in the face and warns, "Somebody's gonna have to answer/ The time is coming soon."

As strong as her social concerns are, Chapman's personal highlights are genuine. In a quavering, moody voice, she struggles with love until a resolution of ANY kind is within earshot. Such honesty and desperation, however, leaves itself open to pain and heartbreak. In "Fast Car," she proclaims, "You got a fast car/ I want a ticket to anywhere." The protagonist, a high school dropout given the task of caring for her alcoholic father, wages promises and ultimatums against her conscience. This girl knows a fast car can only reach a dead end that much quicker. ("You gotta make a decision/ Leave tonight or die this way.")

Elsewhere, Chapman's romantic desires are seen burning, yet exude frustration. The album closes with "If Not Now" and "For You," two confessions of unrequited love. Backed by quiet, assured instrumentation, Chapman delivers reflective thoughts of amazing musical (and personal) maturity ("I'm not longer/ The master of my emotions.").

Somehow, explaining the beauty and strength of this album gets lost in translation from sound to paper. Listen for yourself — Doug Piwinski.

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